


Business of Priests and Clerks

by SharkGirlNirea



Series: Mysteries of the Past Fics [1]
Category: Criminal Case (Video Game), Criminal Case: Mysteries of the Past
Genre: Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Biblical Themes (Abrahamic Religions), Corrupt police, Exploitation of immigrants, Gen, Irish immigration, Mysteries of the Past Case #6: In the Name of the Father, Mysteries of the Past District 1: New Haven, Victorian era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkGirlNirea/pseuds/SharkGirlNirea
Summary: For too long, Edward Whimple has been swept under the rug, underappreciated, and under paid.But when he concocts a scheme to earn money by exploiting Irish immigrants, he knows he's on his way to become richer and more respected.Until a certain Irish priest threatens to ruin Whimple's plans.
Relationships: Father Donovan & Gladys Perrin
Series: Mysteries of the Past Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975516
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7





	Business of Priests and Clerks

“I know what you’ve been doing.”

Edward Whimple raised an eyebrow at the Irish priest. When Whimple first heard Donovan had once been in the Irish mob and murdered an Italian mobster, he'd snorted in derision. It’d been hard to believe, to say the least. But now, confronted with an apoplectic Donovan, Whimple realized there was a side of Father Donovan kept hidden from the public.

“What do you mean, Donovan?” Whimple asked, staring back at the priest, his arms crossed. “I’m just the police force's evidence clerk. What could _I_ do that would affect anything at all in New Haven?”

“You very much know the answer to that,” Donovan spat. “You’ve been sending immigrants to abusive employers! From what I’ve heard, they’re paid half of what they were promised, work unreasonable hours, are forced to sleep in dirty straw, are beaten, and their employers take and withhold their legal documents!”

Jutting out his chin, Whimple said, “Donovan, _you’ve_ been sending them to their employers.”

Through gritted teeth, Donovan retorted, “Yes, because _you told me they were looking for workers!_ But you’ve been-- are they paying you off?”

Whimple’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant sneer. “Do your accusations have any concrete proof? And if I did sell the immigrants to abusive employers, perhaps I did so to make up for the money you took from me! If I remember correctly, doesn’t the Bible frown upon theft?”

Donovan’s grip on his rosary tightened; the beads were surely digging painfully into his palms. “I gave your donations--”

“It was a loan, you imbecile--”

“Fine!” Donovan said, gesturing. “I gave that money to the immigrants. I told you, I won’t take money back from them. It was only a bit of money, and they need it more than you--”

“Excuse me?” Whimple said, his face flushing. “Are you--?”

“That is not the present issue!” Donovan said, gesturing through the air again. “The issue is that you’ve been putting immigrants into slave labor!”

“Perhaps I have,” Whimple said, smiling unpleasantly. “Perhaps I haven’t. Where’s your proof? What are you going to do about it?”

Donovan remained silent, although the look he was giving radiated pure loathing.

“Are you going to kill me, Donovan?” Whimple taunted. “I’ve heard the Flying Squad is trying to build a case against you. They know about your past. They suspect you’ve been selling those immigrants to abusive employers. I’m sure they’d love to lock you away…. Prove criminals can’t reform….”

For a moment, Whimple thought Donovan was indeed going to attack him, and wondered if provoking him was a good idea. Then, Donovan took several deep breaths and smiled tightly.

“No, I will not kill you.” Clasping his hands together as if praying, Donovan said, “‘Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all.’ I will find concrete evidence of your misdeeds, Edward Whimple. And if I cannot, God will see fit that you atone for your sins, as I once did.” Donovan’s cold eyes bore into Whimple before the priest tightened his jaw and departed.

Whimple watched him leave and angrily kicked a rock. Even if Donovan had no evidence he could take to the Flying Squad or the police, if, in his meddling, he discovered something….

How had he found out? He’d been careful… but Donovan spent large portions of his time with the immigrants in their tenements. He could’ve heard something that aroused his suspicions… followed Whimple somewhere, or talked to someone.

Years of work would crumble if Donovan’s investigation continued.

His retreating figure was still visible, and Whimple began to follow him.

一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一

Whimple watched through the window of the barbershop Donovan had entered a few minutes prior. Donovan had been talking to the barber’s assistant, but, as she left him to attend to retrieve something from the back of the shop, Donovan removed his Bible from his bag. From what Whimple could see, Donovan was struggling to focus on what he was reading.

Whimple waited on a bench outside of the shop. Because it was a Saturday evening, several men were seeking the barbershop’s services after work. After a few minutes of waiting, two men exited the barbershop. Figuring that a couple seats were now open, Whimple entered the shop.

“Hello, sir,” the barber’s assistant said, walking to Whimple from the back of the shop, holding a box of hair products. “If you’d wait a moment, I’ll be with you-- um, that seat over there’s empty. You can sit on that free chair.”

“I only need to buy pomade. And may I use that?” Whimple asked, indicating a bottle of ink on the front desk.

“Oh. Of course, sir.”

Fishing out a piece of paper from his bag, Whimple wrote, “We must talk in private. Do me the honor of meeting me at the train station at 3 o’clock tonight.”

Taking care not to smudge the ink, Whimple held the note on his hand as he scanned the shelves to the side of the front desk. When the ink had dried, Whimple returned to the counter. “Do you mind giving this note to Father Donovan?” Whimple asked the assistant as he purchased the pomade. “Tell him it’s from a friend.”

The assistant tucked a strand of her curly, blonde hair behind her ear as she said, “Should I give him a name?”

“No. He’ll know who I am when he sees the note.”

Likely deciding it wasn’t her business to inquire about Whimple’s need to speak with a religious leader, the assistant said, “Of course, sir. Have a good evening.”

一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一

BANG! BANG!

Whimple struggled not to roll his eyes as Police Commissioner Baldwin shot a tree on the other side of his garden. Several of Baldwin’s guests gasped and cheered.

Baldwin certainly had the talent for holding audiences captive. Now, somewhat intoxicated, he had almost no ability to control his excitement while showing off to the upper-class guests at his evening party.

“See, th-this here is the weapon tha’ was used by a _despicable_ man to--to murder the heroic fireman, Otis Kidd!” Baldwin said loudly to his guests, which included Whimple and other members of the police force who yearned for pay raises and thus attended Baldwin's parties. “Of course, th-the murderer was caught, and he shall rot i-in prison for the rest o’ his days!”

The guests reacted appropriately with wonder and morbid fascination. Baldwin set down the gun on a table and directed the group back indoors to the refreshment tables. Whimple slipped the gun into his coat before joining the rest of the guests.

一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一一

Whimple pulled his coat tighter around himself. According to his pocket watch, it was 2:55.

Any moment now. Surely, the priest couldn’t resist what he would likely interpret as an implore for help. Or perhaps, he would think the note's author had information to divulge.

Whimple shifted his weight, the gravel crunching under him.

Until--

Footsteps.

Whimple turned around.

The street lamps illuminated Donovan’s short form and cast shadows across his face.

Donovan stopped when he recognized Whimple.

“You,” said Donovan. “You wrote that note. What do you want?”

“You’re planning on ruining my months of work, aren’t you?”

“What do you think?” said Donovan coldly. “You think I’d continue to let you exploit these immigrants who come to Concordia for a better life? You expect me to turn my back on them?”

Whimple said nothing, but under his coat gripped the gun.

“Is that it?” Donovan asked. “Did you summon me here to threaten me? Or do you want to repent? Do you feel remorse for your sins?”

“I do not,” said Whimple.

Donovan made a noise of derision and turned to leave.

Edward brought the gun out of his pocket and cocked it.

Briefly, he wondered if shooting a priest was such a good idea. It seemed sacrilegious.

But just as quickly as the thought arrived, he forced it out. Donovan had failed to mind his own business. Furthermore, his persistent asking for donations for immigrants was irritating. If anyone was to blame for what Whimple was about to do, it was Donovan.

If Donovan ratted him out, Whimple's months of reaping the benefits of his scheme would be gone.

“Donovan!” Whimple shouted.

Donovan turned.

Whimple pulled the trigger.

And Donovan fell.

**Author's Note:**

> He that hastened to be rich hath an evil eye, and considereth not that poverty shall come upon him.”  
> \- Proverbs 28: 22


End file.
